


Ray two: A Waterfall in England

by servalansflowers19



Series: Rays of Moonlight [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Ravensthorpe, Short One Shot, maybe skip if you haven't played the game, very slight AC Valhalla spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29614290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servalansflowers19/pseuds/servalansflowers19
Summary: An unusually quiet night in Ravensthorpe
Series: Rays of Moonlight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175750
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Ray two: A Waterfall in England

**Author's Note:**

> Ancora una volta, alla Saggezza della Serenissima – ora pro auctorem ;-)

_For about two thousand years he has been sitting on this platform and sleeping, but when the full moon comes, as you see, he is tormented by insomnia. (…) He says that even the moon gives him no peace, and that his is a bad job. -_ Mikhail Bulgakov, _Master and Margarita_

The air is still. It is a warm night. The boughs have dried out, shed their eternal load of water and moisture that clings to everything. You can wash and wash, but never feel fully clean. Either you are wrapped in layers against the chill, skins and rough cloth, fur of wolf and fur of lamb tightly bound together, one predator having defeated the other predator, and its food.

Or you can be dressed lightly, appreciating that the chill of England is less predatory than the cold of Norway. Then the moisture and endless water will stick to you, to your weapons, to your papers, to everything. Metal rusts and wood bends, something is always dripping somewhere, and dust turns to fine, slippery mud. The river treats the banks how it will, undermining the ancient bridges and silting over the docks. People here do not know how to tame it, and the river does not care.

Having seen the Syrian desert and skirted Saqhara, the abundance of water in England is downright obscene. But keeping clean is impossible, and both Basim and Hytham have all but given up.

Hytham never complains, it’s not in in his nature. Instead, he panics when he realises the impossibility of keeping an archive dry in the damp riverside woods. The problem is, frankly, perennial in this place. Basim thought his protégé would burst into tears upon hearing Eivor’s description of sunken old bureaus. She spoke of pieces of paper she could not save as they floated away in the dark water, and of shelves collapsed into canals that had overflown.

Basim had to remind Hytham that they were lucky to have Eivor, who invariably saved whatever she could. She has a healthy respect for the written word, and an even healthier, shrewd curiosity. But Hytham cannot stop bemoaning the lost pages, even if he tried.

Tonight, however, Hytham is not here to complain. Tonight is strangely quiet. The crew has taken one of the larger boats downriver on some nefarious business. Or perhaps it is a glorious business. Truly, it depends on what side of the axe you are facing. But that is same world over.

And always has been, the thought sparks uncomfortably.

The crew’s departure is not the only reason for the quiet. A little downriver from the dock, in one of the half-built houses by the bakery, a young woman is having her first child. It is not going well, it is taking a long time, the father is off on the river, and her parents had remained in Norway. Now the rest of the village will take their place. Randvi was the first to rush off, torch in hand, because Randvi looks after everyone except herself. Tarben would be pacing up and down anyway, it’s his first neighbour that is in trouble. And others would gather at a respectable distance, but close enough if needed.

The imperturbable Yanli, aware of a much wider world than her hosts, simply checked that her door was locked and marched over to the bureau. The seasoned traveller loudly informed both the Hidden Ones that, lovely though their hosts were, if anything she has seen in these lands was to go by, they were little children when it came to surgery and medicine. Could Hytham, being a little less medically ignorant than their hosts, kindly stop by? Yanli respected Valka, of course, but spirits of ancestors were one thing, and medicine was another.

And off went Hytham, unsure how he could help, but determined to not let his hosts and Yanli down.

Basim is tired of sitting alone in the small room, so he walks out into the unusually quiet village. Even the dogs had followed their masters, or wondered off into the woods. A bluish sheen covers everything. The moon is rising. Against the small cliff at the back of the village, Valka’s hut crouches like a creature from her stories, squat and wide, spiked with sharped antlers and decked with bones.

But tonight, even Valka is gone. The first children born in the village cannot be welcomed in without a seer. Prophecies and omens matter. It’s that or quantum probabilities, Basim smiles wryly, and both can turn out equally useless.

The waterfall behind Valka’s hut splashes into a crystal-clear pond, free of silt and eels. The moonlight has turned the waterfall silver. The waters below it are ink-black. Where the rays of light hit the water, they break, they refract - refract, another word from the depths of time - and a blue sheen arises.

He is alone. For once, he is alone. He is unarmed. Ironically, he is safe.

Of course, this is still a forest, and who knows what lies in it. But Basim is not particularly afraid of wolves.

It is good to be away. He calmly admits to himself that, armour of rationality thrown aside, he does not want to be present at, or even close to, the great event of childbirth. He wishes, for once, to be clean and not remember.

As he steps into the water, his wish is granted. The chill sears through him, cutting into his bones. It is clean, uncaring, and ever so welcome.

He steps in further, ice cold arms of the water entwining around his waist. The glowing spray from the waterfall caresses his face and turns into a million sharp stings. He opens his eyes and looks up at the moon.

The ridiculously oversized satellite sheds its light unreservedly. It will do for tides and measuring of time, it does its job well enough. It could not help against the blast. In the end, nothing did. _Forgive me if I have my doubts._

And we talked of it so much, Basim whispers, under this same unfeeling light. Whispers in the ink-black shadows then, whispers in the ink-black shadows now. But there is no response, no warm, concerned whisper in reply.

You are alone, he is reminded.

Alone, but clean, he thinks as his hands break the surface of the dark water. Clean, but not pure. Never pure, never. Hidden among the hidden, clean but not pure.

By now he is accustomed to the cold water and the blinding moonlight, and he can once again remember. In defeat, he closes his eyes and tries to not think at all. _Nothing more. Nothing less. No pain, or joy... or passage of time._

Blue lights and the infinite chill, and memories. There is no peace in the moonlight. He closes his eyes, and stands still, waiting patiently for the memories to fade a little.

And then he splashes into the dark water. When it closes over his head, when it pulls him into the swirl under the waterfall, he is reminded that, like all that lives, he is at the mercy of the water, of the sun, of the fiery guts of the earth, and of the unhelpful moon.

That is strangely comforting.

When he resurfaces, wet, clean and much calmer, the silence is gone. Impatient, eager footsteps approach the small pond. He can tell by the sound that it is not Valka. He really does not want to explain himself to her. Her insight can be blunt, but still unsettling at times.

Praise be to the various ineffectual gods, it is Hytham, who can appreciate the value of a good bath even in ice-cold water.

“Mentor! I’ve looked for you everywhere!” he shouts, and by his voice Basim can already tell that the news is good.

“Is it done?” he asks as he wipes the wet hair from his face.

“Yes!” Hytham calls back happily from the edge of the pond. “And both the mother and the child are well!”

Basim makes his way to the shallower end of the pond, and the thoughtful Hytham throws him his tunic. Basim catches it in mid-air, thanking his student.

“That is wonderful news,” Basim says. “Is it a girl or a boy?”

“A girl,” Hytham replies. He stops, joy curbed for a moment. “I hope the father will not be disappointed at that.”

“Disappointed?” Basim raises his eyebrows. “More fool he, if he is. Thank you for bringing me the good news.”

Hytham shifts a little uncomfortably.

“I think there will be drinking again,” he mutters.

“Go ahead,” Basim smiles. “I will join you presently.”

As Hytham walks away, a cloud comes over the moon. Basim dresses quietly in almost perfect darkness.

It is time to be alone no longer.


End file.
